


You and I

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, But also, Canon Asexual Character, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Minor appearances by the entire season three Archives staff and also Georgie, post season three trauma-free AU, seriously there's a lot of fluff here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16142858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: An Archivist and his assistant, together and apart.





	1. The Beholding

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is inspired by the name of one of the Powers, but the Power itself does not feature in the story.

Jon had fallen asleep by the time Martin returned with the tea. His head was resting on his arms, which were in turn crossed on top of the desk. It really didn't look comfortable, but Martin supposed any resting place would lead to sleep once you were as tired as Jon seemed.

He debated waking him up, but decided against it. The tea could wait, and Jon _really_ looked like he needed sleep. Instead, he set the mugs gently on the desk and quietly approached the sleeping Archivist. Jon's jacket was hanging on the back of the chair; Martin carefully removed it and draped it over Jon's shoulders as a blanket.

Jon sighed softly in his sleep, eyelids twitching, and Martin froze, hoping he hadn't woken him. But Jon didn't wake, settling back into a quiet sleep. Martin smiled down at him. Jon looked so _peaceful_ when he was asleep, the lines of care and worry that were forever etched around his eyes gentling into untroubled smoothness. His nose was pressed into the sleeve of his shirt, causing his breath to come out in a gentle, wheezing snore.

It wasn't - it really _shouldn't_ be attractive, but Martin could feel his pulse speed up and had to resist the urge to push a few loose strand of hair back from Jon's face. Attractive wasn't the right word - _endearing_ , maybe. But then, everything Jon did was endearing, for Martin.

He shook himself. Bad enough to fall for his boss (though really, the hierarchy of employment had broken down so far at this point that the term didn't really apply), no need to make it worse by watching him sleep. That was just creepy.

Martin gathered up the tea mugs and left, allowing himself one final glance back. Jon had burrowed into the jacket over his shoulders, one hand reaching up to pull it close. Martin smiled.


	2. The Vast

Five inches. It really wasn't that far. All it would take was the merest twitch, and his hand could cross the distance. So why did it feel like such a vast span, an eternity of space, an uncrossable _gulf_ standing between his hand and Martin's?

Martin was oblivious to his struggle, distracted as he tried to follow the argument occurring between Melanie and Tim. Jon was pretending to listen to the argument as well, but his thoughts were miles away.

He _knew_ \- he was _pretty sure_ Martin returned his feelings. He had seen the lingering looks, he had heard the tapes - even heard Melanie and Basira lay it out for him on a silver platter, _Martin's got it bad_ \- but what if they were mistaken? What if _he_ was mistaken? What if he was about to lose the one person who had stuck with him, unwavering, undoubting, through _everything_ , just because he couldn't keep his heart to himself?

Jon took a deep breath and reached out, crossing the five inches of infinity, and grabbed Martin's hand, squeezing it gently.

Martin looked at him, surprised, and a radiant smile spread over his face. And he squeezed back.


	3. The Hunt

It _had_ to be around here somewhere. Basira's directions had been very specific. And this _was_ the right street - with the old bookshop on one corner and antiques place on the other - but the bakery was nowhere to be seen.

Martin huffed in frustration, and Jon put a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe it moved?" He suggested.

Martin nodded, disappointed. Some first date this was turning out to be - standing out in the chilly winds, looking for a shop that wasn't even there.

"I'm sorry, Jon," he said. "This was a bad idea, Basira even said she hadn't been there in years."

"Hey, don't apologize. I don't mind looking a little more. Did she say what it was called?"

"Uh, no. Just that it had the _best_ pastry to grab when she and Daisy were on duty."

Jon's eyes narrowed as he looked up and down the street. "Books or antiques?"

"What?"

"We'll ask someone. Books or antiques?"

"Antiques, I guess?"

Jon smiled and grabbed his hand, pulling him down the street toward the shop. Martin followed willingly, though he still couldn't quite believe this was real. Jon was holding his hand. Jon was going along with this ridiculous search for a bakery that had probably closed years ago, just because Martin had suggested it might be fun. Jon was on a _date_ with him.

The antiques dealer did indeed remember the bakery, which had moved to a bigger location only two years previously. She gave them the address, and Jon suggested they walk, as it was only a few blocks away. His shoulder brushed against Martin's as they went, and he hadn't let go of his hand.

The new address was empty as well, just a burned husk of a building left, and Martin began to despair of ever finding the place. But Jon was undeterred, and the man in the shop next door assured them the bakery was still open - they just had to move again after the fire six months ago.

As they left, Martin glanced nervously at Jon. Surely he was fed up with this search by now? Surely he was fed up with _Martin_ , regretting the whole thing, wishing he'd never taken a chance on being more than friends?

But Jon seemed quite content to go along with the confusion, hunting for the bakery through London's busy streets and continuing to talk about nothing in particular, every so often giving Martin's hand a little squeeze.

They found it, eventually, at the third location. Basira had been right - the pastries were _amazing_ , and Martin was almost able to push his anxieties out of his mind as they ordered and sat at one of the small tables inside. Almost. But Jon had started giving him odd looks when he thought Martin wasn't looking, and he couldn't help feeling something was wrong.

It was Jon who eventually broached the subject. "Martin..." he sounded hesitant. "Is everything alright? You've been... quiet."

Martin felt himself flush. "It's nothing, Jon, its just -" he sighed. "Why are you here? Really? This whole day has been a disaster, you didn't have to stick around just to make me feel better."

Jon tilted his head. "What are you talking about? This hasn't been a disaster."

"But - with the bakery - and the wandering - and, and - you don't have to -"

"Martin." Jon cut him off and reached over the table to clasp his hands, a worried line appearing on his forehead. "I'm not here for the bakery. I don't - I didn't ask you out to make you _feel_ better. I asked you out because I _like_ you. A lot. And I like spending time with you. This afternoon has been - well, it's been wonderful, detours and all."

"R- really?"

"Martin, we could have spent the entire afternoon just sitting in the Archives doing nothing and I would have enjoyed it. This -" he squeezed Martin's hands again. "This is all I wanted."

Martin felt a weight he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying lift. Jon wanted this. He really wanted this. He wanted to spend time with Martin, to go on dates, to hold hands and smile and wander the city looking for shops that may or may not still be there, just because they were doing it together.

He grinned, and Jon ducked his head a little, blushing. "Thanks, Jon. That - that means a lot."

Jon smiled back at him, and they passed the rest of the afternoon wandering the city, doing nothing in particular. But they did it together.


	4. The Flesh

This was... odd. Martin was warm against him, pressed as close as he possibly could be, standing on his toes to make up for the height difference. Their arms were wrapped around each other, and one of Martin's hands had found its way into Jon's hair - that was fine, that made sense, it was comforting to have Martin so close. But the rest of it...  
  
The rest of it was odd.  
  
Jon had never enjoyed kissing this much before. Then again, there had never been anyone he had _wanted_ to kiss this much before. It wasn't just lips pressed against his own - it was _Martin's_ lips. Martin's mouth moving, Martin's _tongue_ -  
  
Jon broke the kiss with a gasp, pulling back slightly. Martin's eyes were shut, his face flushed, slightly out of breath. He blinked, looking at Jon.  
  
"S-sorry," he said sheepishly. "Got a bit carried away."  
  
"N-no, it's fine," Jon managed. "I just don't - don't usually -"  
  
"I know," Martin said, making to step back. Jon tightened his arms around him.  
  
"I didn't say it was bad," he said, and Martin paused. "Just... maybe not so soon?"  
  
"Of course, Jon," Martin said, smiling and stepping closer again. "Whatever you're comfortable with."  
  
Jon sighed in relief. Of course Martin would understand. He was _Martin_. He leaned into another kiss, closed-mouthed and gentle, and felt Martin smile against his lips. Yes.  
  
He was _Martin_.


	5. The Dark

Night had fallen, and the lamps cast a soft orange glow over the pair curled on the sofa, an island of light in the darkness that had spread through the rest of Jon's flat. Martin sighed. He  _ really _ didn't want to move, but he should be on his way home. He shifted, preparing to stand. 

"It's late. I should probably be on my way."

Jon stirred sleepily at his movement. "Or you could just stay?"

Martin froze. Had Jon really just said-?

"Jon?"

"Hm?" He really  _ was _ half asleep, wasn't he? Martin still wasn't used to seeing Jon this relaxed. He smiled.

"Are you even paying attention or are you just talking in your sleep?"

Jon snorted and pulled Martin closer. "I'm awake. Mostly. And yes, I'm paying attention. It was a serious offer - stay the night."

Martin hesitated. He  _ really _ wanted to say yes, but... "Are you sure? I know how you get about your space, I wouldn't want to intrude."

"I'm sure. It's late, and... well, we  _ know _ what lurks on the city streets after nightfall, better than most people. It wouldn't feel safe, you going out there alone. Also... to be perfectly honest, Martin, I'd quite like to see you first thing in the morning. I imagine it will be quite a pleasant way to wake up."

He smiled when he said that, a little shyly, and Martin grinned back.

"I have to agree with you, that sounds... really, really wonderful. If you're sure, then, I'll stay."

Instead of responding, Jon just sighed in contentment and closed his eyes, letting his head fall onto Martin's shoulder. Martin settled back into the sofa, curling closer to the sleepy Archivist.


	6. The Buried

It was cold outside, and with the weight of blankets above him and Martin squeezed next to him on the twin bed, Jon was finding it rather cramped. Then again, he wasn't complaining. He had always gotten cold easily, and the lack of space facilitated his natural inclination to burrow close to Martin for extra warmth. 

Currently Jon had his arms wrapped around him from behind, his chest pressed to Martin's back, and had tangled their legs together as a bonus. 

It had taken them a while to settle on a joint sleeping position. Martin had realized quickly how much Jon was inclined to cuddle, but his early attempts to hold the Archivist close tended to lead to disrupted sleep and nightmares. They had learned: Jon did  _ not _ sleep well when he felt trapped. 

So Jon held Martin instead, tangling their limbs together for extra intimacy, but leaving himself free to pull away if danger threatened. He was well aware of how ridiculous it was, but they had both gotten used to it. 

Martin held one of Jon's hands now, running his thumb over the back in a rhythmic, soothing motion. He took a deep breath, then murmured: "Jon?"

Jon could feel Martin's chest vibrate when he spoke. "Yeah?"

"I know we've only been going out a few months, but... I just want you to know. I... I love you."

His voice was quiet. Jon paused. Martin loved him? It shouldn't be a surprise, and yet it was. He felt that he should take some time to think about this, to formulate a proper response, but...

...But there was really only one response he could give, wasn't there? He had known for a while now.

Jon pressed a kiss against the back of Martin's neck. "I love you too."

Martin's breath caught, and when Jon pressed his free hand to his chest he could feel his pulse speed up. Had he really thought Jon would give any other answer? Did he really think Jon didn't feel the same?

He tightened his arms around Martin, squeezing his hand for good measure. "There haven't been many people in my life that I've grown to care about - to  _ really _ care about. You're at the top of that list. You..." he ran out of words, and settled for placing another kiss on Martin's neck. "I love you."

Martin returned the pressure on his hand, and though he couldn't see his face, Jon could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. "I'd turn around and kiss you right now, but I don't really want to let the cold air under the blankets."

Jon laughed softly. "I'd prefer if you didn't." Then he pulled the blankets closer around them, enclosing them in their own small world of warmth.


	7. The Spiral

_Write my name in an ink of shadows_  
_My fate is spelled in skittering fear._ _  
Too long I've watched-_

"Oh god damn it," Jon said, and Martin jumped, glancing up from the poem he was writing.

"Everything alright?"

Jon tossed his book down, frustrated. "This plot makes no sense. I _thought_ I'd figured out what was going on, but then... at this point, I'm not even sure who the protagonist is!"

"That bad?"

Jon sighed. "It started out as a fairly predictable horror story - _I thought_ \- but it keeps diverging into long analyses of what various references in the story _might_ mean, possibly, make your own judgment - and there's at least three different narrators you could point to and say _yes, they've got the truth of it, they're telling the real story_ \- but their story is given second-hand and some of them seem to have been made up by the others? And at least one of them is lying, for no other reason than to convolute the plot even further. And don't get me started on the book itself, it's got text printed _backward_ on the page just for - for _aesthetic value_ in some places!"

His face was flushed with frustration, and Martin had to bite his tongue to stop himself making a very ill-timed joke. _Are you sure that's not a Leitner?_ Jon probably wouldn't find that funny.

"Why are you still reading it, then? You could just put it down."

Jon's eyes widened and he gave Martin a look that implied that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. "This is the most unique book I've ever read. I want to know how it ends."

Martin laughed. "So you fully admit you're doing this to yourself? Just because you're curious?"

Jon huffed. "Perhaps."

"Look, why don't you just put it aside for now, and I can make us some tea. It'll keep till tomorrow."

Jon ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "That's probably a good idea. I'll make the tea though - you're still writing."

He got up to do so, and Martin turned back to the notebook in front of him. He frowned. Where had he been going with this?

 _Too long I've watched_... what?

It had been something sad, he knew that much. Talking to Jon had driven it out of his head entirely. Sad poetry just didn't feel _right_ after that. He snorted. Trust Jon to get so worked up over a book. He grabbed his pen and scrawled a new poem in the margins of the notebook before following the clink of mugs to the kitchen.

 _Roses are red,_  
_Violets are blue,_  
_You're cute when you're reading_ _  
And making tea too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is reading [House of Leaves](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Leaves), which is actually a really amazing book that I'd definitely recommend. It does read like a Spiral-Leitner, though.


	8. The Slaughter

"I run him through with my sword," Daisy said, and Georgie burst out laughing.

"What, your own party member? He was trying to protect you!"

"I don't need protection, and he stole my dagger."

"I'm a _thief_ ," Tim said, outraged. "It's what I _do!_ You don't see Martin trying to kill me just because I stole his cloak!"

"Yeah, well, don't expect me to heal you if you get injured, either."

"Oh, like you ever do anyway! You waste all your spells on Jon!"

"Wizards don't have many hit points, I have to!"

"Oi! Focus up!" Georgie called. "Daisy, roll to hit."

Daisy smirked at Tim, rolling high on both attack and damage.

"Uh... okay... Tim, you fall to the ground, you're bleeding out. Daisy, while you're distracted murdering the thief, one of the goblins sneaks up and stabs you." She rolled. "Take... five damage."

"Worth it," Daisy muttered, and Basira snorted.

"My turn yet?"

"Yep. You want to keep up the ranged attack?"

"Uh huh. I fire an arrow at the goblin attacking Daisy, and..." She rolled a few times. "Hit it for three damage."

"It's injured, not dead. Jon?"

Jon sighed, scanning his character sheet. "Do I have _any_ spells left?"

"Nope. No weapons either."

"I'm just going to keep hiding behind Martin, then."

Martin smiled and reached over to squeeze his hand. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."

Melanie groaned. "Kill me now, would you?"

Georgie laughed. "Well, it's your turn."

She perked up. "Wait, can I kill _them?"_

"If you want to, but don't forget there's still like twenty goblins in the room."

"Hold on, didn't I pick up an explosive potion last game? Yeah! I toss it at them to stop them being so sickeningly cute."

Tim let out a hoot of laughter; Martin an enraged screech. Basira and Jon both rolled their eyes, and Daisy gave Melanie an approving nod.

Georgie hesitated. "You sure you want to do that? Toss explosives about in a cave?"

"Yep."

"Oh... -kay, then." She rolled a few dice. Then a few more. She bit her lip, and looked up.

"The bottle smashes on the ground next to the wizard and cleric, engulfing them in plumes of fire. They are obliterated immediately. The shockwave spreads out from the blast, knocking the goblins and both fighters to the ground, and killing the already wounded thief. The walls of the chamber begin to shake, dislodging the ranger from her perch - she survives the fall but, uh..." She laughed slightly. "...is immediately killed as the ceiling collapses, bringing down hundreds of tons of rock and dirt on top of the survivors. Congratulations, you killed the entire party."

There was silence for almost thirty seconds. Then Melanie threw her arms into the air, grinning. "Woohoo! New record! We managed almost three full weeks without a TPK!"

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and the group dissolved into laughter. It was, indeed, a new record.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with role-playing games, TPK = Total Party Kill, a.k.a EVERYONE DIES AT ONCE.


	9. The Desolation

The flat was empty. Stripped bare of anything that had brought life or joy to the space. Not even the boxes remained. Martin stood in the door for the last time, taking in the space that he had called home for as long as he had lived in London. 

In the living room: the windowsill that got the best sunlight for houseplants. The worn patch of floor where the chair legs used to scrape. The slightly darker boxes of color on the walls where picture frames that had hung for years stopped the wallpaper bleaching. 

In the kitchen: the faint stain on the baseboard from a spilled cup of tea three years back. The slight burn on the counter from when he dropped a hot pan. The place he had tripped over his own two feet and would have taken a nasty fall if Jon hadn't been there to catch him. Where Jon had laughed and held him for perhaps longer than necessary, but that was okay because Martin wasn't letting go either.

In the entryway: the hooks where both their coats had hung, and the spot where they always tripped over the pile of shoes that they always  _ intended _ to relocate, gone now with the rest of it. The scuffs around the door jam from hastily placed wedges, bits of cloth and paper shoved into the cracks to keep Prentiss out...

Martin shook himself. And  _ that  _ was why he was the one moving. They had discussed this, and both agreed: Jon's flat was filled with good memories, and had yet to acquire any of the horrible ones. It was a much better place to start a life together. He shut the door and walked away, leaving the desolate flat to its own devices.


	10. The Web

There was a leaf caught in Martin's hair. It was a small thing, but it held Jon's attention. A small, green leaf, tangled in among the fine strands and curls.

Martin hadn't noticed it. He was reclining on the park bench, face turned up to the sun, eyes closed. With a leaf in his hair. Jon watched with a small smile on his face, drinking in the details of the moment.

The day was warm, but there was a gentle breeze that kept the heat from getting oppressive. The park was filled with people on their lunch breaks enjoying the weather, and Jon and Martin were no different. It was a nice change from the Archive basement, and though they had to return soon, neither was in a hurry.

Another leaf drifted down from the tree above them, brushing Martin's ear on the way past. He raised a hand to lazily flick it away, then took advantage of the motion to drape his arm around Jon's shoulders. Jon leaned into him, turning his head to nuzzle into his hair. The first leaf brushed against his nose and he laughed softly.

“Hm?” Martin tried to look at Jon, and Jon leaned back slightly to let him.

“You have a leaf in your hair.”

“Oh.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the leaf, but it didn't come out. “It's stuck.”

“Let me.” Martin tilted his head to the side obligingly, and Jon brushed his fingers through his hair, gently pulling the fine strands away from the leaf. It was trapped fairly securely, tangled in the wind-blown curls, but Jon was patient, and gentle, and he knew Martin never minded being the sole focus of his attention. He didn't particularly mind making Martin the sole focus of his attention, either.

After a few moments, he was able to pull the leaf free, and he held it up triumphantly for Martin to see. Martin grinned and took it from him, holding it up between two fingers before blowing a soft puff of air to send it away.

A chance breeze caught it and sent it spinning straight back at him, where it once again became entangled in his hair. He sighed, and Jon laughed.

“Come here.” It was easier to retrieve this time, and Jon made sure to place it on the ground where it could do no harm.

“Thanks, Jon.”

“Don't mention it.” He checked his watch and sighed. “We should probably be heading back to the Institute now, anyway.”

Martin nodded, and they gathered the detritus of their lunch back into the bag Martin had brought. Jon grabbed for his hand as they began walking back, and Martin smiled at him. His hair was ruffled from Jon's attempts to retrieve the leaf, and the sun caught on the stands, making them glow. Jon focused on the image, imprinting this moment in his memory. Sunlight and smiles, ruffled hair and _Martin_.

It was a good day.


	11. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [these](https://cirrus-grey.tumblr.com/post/178491270069/copperbadge-copperbadge-kestrelhill) [posts](https://cirrus-grey.tumblr.com/post/178491275964/copperbadge-redneckrhetorician-replied-to-your) on Tumblr.

The man in front of him did not look like Jonathan Sims. It _was_ Jon, no question about that, but it didn't _look_ like him.

His shoes were shined, his hair was slicked back from his forehead, and he was wearing a dark blue suit and a sheepish expression.

"Well?" He said, turning slowly to show Martin the whole outfit. "What do you think?"

Martin hesitated. "It's, um... well, it's... you look very... formal?"

Jon groaned. "That bad?"

"No! No, it's, it's fine, it's just not very... you know... _you_."

Jon sighed, nodding in agreement. "It doesn't _feel_ very 'me' either, but it's what the donors expect."

The Magnus Institute was holding a fundraising event. More of a tour, actually. Prospective donors would be shown around the Institute, and the department heads would give brief explanations of how their teams contributed to the advancement of paranormal investigations. Despite Jon's protests, he was expected to attend.

"Well," Martin said, stepping closer. "At least there's one advantage to you wearing a tie."

"And what's that?" Jon asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

Martin smiled, and instead of answering he placed a hand on Jon's waist. The other was wrapped around the tie in question, and he tugged gently to pull the taller man down for a kiss.

Jon chuckled softly when they broke apart. "I suppose romantic cliches _are_ an advantage to fine dress. Now, if I could just skip the fundraiser and stay here with _you_..."

Martin laughed and pushed him away a step, then moved closer again to fix his tie. "I don't think the other department heads would be very happy about that. It's just one night, Jon. I'll still be here when you get back."

"You don't have to wait up, you know. I'll probably be late."

He shrugged. "We'll see. I'm looking forward to your rant about how useless all the donors are, I might want to hear it right away."

"I don't -"

Martin stopped him with a sceptical eyebrow.

"Fine. Maybe I rant a _little_."

"And I look forward to hearing all the insults you invent when you do. Now go on, you'll be late if you don't leave soon."

"And that would obviously be a tragedy." Jon deadpanned. "I'll see you later, or tomorrow, depending on how long this lasts."

"Have fun!" Jon rolled his eyes and gave him a quick kiss before hurrying out the door.


	12. The Lonely

He'd forgotten how to be alone. That was an odd realization. He had spent most of his life alone, after all, and it had never bothered him before. Now it did.

He missed Martin.

Not that they hadn't talked - indeed, they'd spent long hours each night on the phone, sharing stories about their days and trading sappy endearments. But it wasn't the same as seeing each other in person, seeing the smiles and lingering looks, curling into each other for the sheer enjoyment of closeness.

But duty called, and so the Archivist had spent the last two weeks traveling around the world again, checking in at the Magnus Institute's various international branches while Martin stayed behind to to deal with the day-to-day operations in London.

It was too quiet, without him there. Not that Martin was very loud - but the simple presence of another person changed a space, filled the silence. The interminable hotel rooms blurred together without a companion to share them with.

But it was almost over. His bags were packed (though nowhere near as neatly as they had been on the way out - Martin had a knack for organization that Jon sadly lacked), his room was cleared, and the woman at the front desk smiled at him as he checked out.

He barely noticed the drive to the airport, and spent his flight staring out the window, unseeing, thoughts caught in limbo between the work he had just finished and the home he was returning to.

He got a taxi at the airport. Martin had offered to pick him up, but his flight got in late and Jon hadn't wanted to put him through the trouble. He was regretting that now. Their first real time apart since the day Jon overcame his nerves to hold Martin's hand, and he just wanted it to be _over._

He checked his bags before heading into their flat, making sure he hadn't left anything behind in the cab. Clothes, paper statements, tapes… and, most important, the selection of high-quality teas he had picked out at every place he visited. It wasn't the most original gift in the world, but he knew Martin would like it. It was all there.

He opened the door, feeling a smile tug at his lips. He was _home._ Martin hurried through the kitchen door, an equally dopey grin plastered to his face and one hand hidden behind his back.

“Jon! You're back! How was the flight?”

Jon dumped his bags on the floor and shucked his coat in one movement. The mess could wait till later.

“Long. It's nice to be home. What've you got there?”

Martin pulled a bouquet of roses from behind his back, blushing. “I know our anniversary isn't until tomorrow, but…”

Jon smiled, feeling tears well in his eyes. Martin had gotten him _flowers_. It was ridiculously sentimental, and yet…

He stepped forward, pulling the other man into an embrace. “ _God,_ Martin. I missed you so much.”

Martin returned the hug, trying not to crush the flowers as he did so. “I missed you too. Happy anniversary, Jon.”

“Happy anniversary.”


	13. The Filth

Martin walked through the door and groaned. The kitchen was still a mess. It had been fun, inviting all the others over the night before, but what with leaving early for work, and Jon staying at the Archives late to work on statements...

He sighed, grabbing the dish soap. It was his problem, then. 

Twenty minutes into scrubbing pasta stains off the plates, he heard the front door creak open. Jon walked into the room, still carrying his jacket in one hand and a tape recorder in the other. 

"Martin. How are you?"

"Soapy. You're home earlier than I expected."

"Yes, I decided to put some things off till tomorrow. Do you want help in here?"

"Nah, you just got in, I got this."

Jon smiled and crossed the room, leaning around his shoulder to give him a quick kiss. "Thank you," he whispered, before going to put his things away. 

Martin continued to wash the dishes, humming quietly to himself as he went. Jon came back in a few minutes later, grabbed a towel, and started drying them. 

"Hey, you don't have to do that, Jon. Go read a book or something."

Jon frowned. "I don't want to read a book. I want to spend time with my boyfriend."

Martin blushed, as he was sure was Jon's intent. He still hadn't gotten used to that, even after over a year of being together. 

"Get the big stuff first, then, I need room to put the pots down."

Jon complied, and they worked in companionable silence for a while. Then an ambulance shrieked by outside and Martin jumped, dropping the pan he was washing and sending a wave of soapy water over the edge of the sink onto his shirt. He cursed, and Jon chuckled, amusement dancing in his eyes. Martin glared. 

"It's not funny, you know."

"Who said it was?" Jon put on a serious face, but Martin could see he was trying not to smile. 

Martin's eyes narrowed and he grinned. "See how you like it, then." He swiped a hand through the dishwater, scooped up a handful of soap, and flicked it at Jon. 

Jon ducked, but only succeed in getting the soap in his face, instead of on his shirt. 

"Wh- Martin!" He spluttered indignantly, and Martin laughed. 

"You're right, it  _ is _ funny."

Jon darted forward, dipping his hand in the water and flinging the drops at Martin. "If that's the way you want to play it -"

Martin squeaked, splashing his hand through the sink to send a wave at Jon. Most of it ended up on the floor, but a fair amount hit the Archivist, soaking through his shirt. 

"Hey!" He ducked back, far too late to avoid the water, and grabbed a mug from the drying rack.

"Wait - Jon - what are you -" Martin stepped back as Jon plunged the mug into the sink, bringing it up brim-full of soapy water. Jon grinned, and Martin yelped, spinning around to try to get out of range. Jon grabbed his arm and pulled him close, raising the mug above both their heads and upending it. Most of the water hit Jon; a fair amount splashed onto Martin; and the rest dripped down to the floor, making it even more slippery.

Martin laughed and clung to Jon as his feet slid out from under him, trying to shake the water out of his hair and regain his balance at the same time.

"I cannot  _ believe _ you did that."

Jon chuckled, setting the mug back on the counter and wrapping his arms around Martin. "Nor can I."

Martin took a moment to observe Jon and had to hold back an amused snort. Jon's hair was plastered to his head, his clothing was soaked and clinging to his body, and he had water dripping down his nose. From an objective standpoint he looked a little like a drowned rat - but Martin had never been able to be objective about Jon, and decided that drowned rats were absolutely adorable. 

He pulled Jon down for a kiss, smiling against his lips as the taller man leaned into him. Jon broke away after a moment and rested his forehead against Martin's, laughing softly.

"You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"No more than you are."

Jon lifted a hand to Martin's hair, combing the water out of it and holding him close. "I love you."

His breath still caught, his heart still skipped a beat. How many times had he heard it by now, whispered in the quiet moments when they were alone? And every time felt just like the first. 

"I love you, too."


	14. The End

Martin's head was heavy against his shoulder, and his arm had fallen asleep, but Jon didn't have the heart to push him off. He shifted slightly, raising his free hand to brush the unruly curls back from the other man's face, smiling when Martin turned slightly in his sleep to meet the touch.

It hit him, suddenly, how much he treasured these moments. Stolen time from the chaos of their lives, brief moments when they could pretend that they were normal. He couldn't imagine his life without it. 

His breath caught. He truly  _ couldn't _ imagine his life without it, so he allowed himself a rare moment of fancy, imagining what a life  _ full _ of these moments could be, if they had never been tied to the Magnus Institute. 

They'd work at separate places, perhaps, and the hours would stretch into lonely afternoons while they were apart. Martin would get home first, and Jon's first sight as he came in the door would be his boyfriend's grinning face. "On time as always," Martin might say, pulling him into a kiss.

Their evenings would be spent in relaxation. Martin would write poetry, Jon would read a book. They'd occasionally pause, reading out favorite passages to each other, making each other smile.

Jon would be the one to propose. He'd see Martin worrying and fretting, nervous as to how to pop the question, so he'd take matters into his own hands and ask, very casually, over dinner. Martin would splutter and stutter over his response, and they'd laugh about it frequently in the years to come. 

They'd get older, of course. Jon would smile at Martin's greying hair, making some small joke about, "Now you know how I feel." Tea would remain a constant companion, but the conversations they shared over it would slowly shift from planning their future to reminiscing about the past. 

And then... rainy days. A solitary figure, laying flowers on a headstone. 

Another headstone, beside the first. Two names, two inscriptions. "A loving husband," perhaps, and "Yours even in death." Moss would grow over their surfaces, and the decades would weather the letters until they faded entirely away.

Jon sighed, bringing his mind back to the present. In another life, perhaps. He smiled down at Martin again, turning to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, forcing back the quiet ache of longing in his heart - for a time, for a place, where this could last so long.

Then he pulled a blanket off the back of the couch, spread it out over Martin's still form, and joined him in sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to everyone who's been following along! This is, to date, the longest thing I've ever written, and the comments/kudos have been much appreciated!


End file.
